


a lesson in compassion (momentarily learnt)

by thinkofaugust



Category: Versailles (TV 2015)
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Well almost, for a little while anyway, in which Henriette and Chevy have a much needed conversation and are finally on the same page
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 11:38:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11080803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkofaugust/pseuds/thinkofaugust
Summary: 'The Chevalier did not know what he’d expected to return to after his release from prison, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t her.In truth, he supposes, Henriette’s presence in Philippe’s chambers should not be a surprise. It is.'Set after the Chevalier's release from prison in S1. E8. He returns to find Henriette waiting for him, with a clear idea how a freed suspected traitor should be treated, and the two begin to realise they have more in common than they first thought. And it isn't something as frivolous as their keen fashion sense.





	a lesson in compassion (momentarily learnt)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vera_dAuriac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_dAuriac/gifts).



> This, undoubtedly, has to be dedicated to Vera_dAuriac. I would never have finished it without you. Thank you for the many hours of reassurance, laughs, and letting me chatter on about my plot that isn't really a plot.
> 
> I found myself wondering when, between being released and reuniting with Phillippe, the Chevalier found time to sort himself out. This is the imagined result, coupled with a heavy dose of long-winded conversations, pointed looks, tense silences and eventual mutual understanding. Because I'm a sucker for that.
> 
> Enjoy! x

The Chevalier did not know what he’d expected to return to after his release from prison, but it wasn’t this. It wasn’t her.

In truth, he supposes, Henriette’s presence in Philippe’s chambers should not be a surprise. She is his wife, after all, regardless of how infrequently he visits her bed. But it is. Doubly so because she’s alone. Alone and standing in the place Philippe should be.

‘And where is Philippe?’  he nearly asks, almost on instinct. For so many years now it has been the first sentence to roll off his tongue in the morning and the last one before he retires at night. An ever-persistent thought, always at the forefront of his mind. When in public, his eyes will scan a crowd for the Duc d'Orléans without even realising. When in private, they rarely look elsewhere. It’s habit. His habit. His Philippe. And yet today, he stays silent. Partly because the King’s guards still have a firm grasp on his shoulders, and partly because something in Henriette’s manner is daring him to ask. It’s nothing more than a slight twitch at the corner of her pretty mouth. But he sees it. Feels it. Feels an unsatisfied urge to see her demeanour crack, to turn the tables on this game they play so he holds all the right cards. He usually does. Always has really, he thinks. But not today.

Today, he is still wearing the same clothes he was arrested in. They’re soiled with a mixture of dirt, blood, vomit and tears. Today, he, with all his charm, wit and splendour, barely escaped a prison cell with his life. And upon returning to the one room in the Godforsaken palace in which he feels truly at peace, he finds the only person he truly loves is not here to greet him. _But she is._ For just that reason alone, today, the Chevalier feels less than half the man he usually is and Henriette clearly knows it. He hates her for it.

‘Leave us now.’ She tells the guards.  They obey, of course. He hates her for that too. The skin on his arms, still tender from the nights spent on a cold, stone floor, prickles as they release him. Somehow the uneasy feeling in his stomach intensifies when the guards shut the door behind them. He’s all too aware that she is staring at him, her eyes dark and disdainful.   He stares back at her. They stand in the middle of the room, motionless, caught in a silent battle of wills for a long minute.

 Eventually, Henriette inclines her head and remarks, 'you’re alive then.’

The Chevalier smirks, ‘Pretty and observant. I might finally be understanding what he sees in you.’ he replies, and without him having to actually say it, they both know he isn’t talking about Philippe.

The corner of Henriette’s mouth twitches unhappily again. She’s pale, he realises. Paler than usual. Must be the effects of her miscarriage. ‘How strange,’ she quips, ‘I’ll never understand what he sees in you.’ And they both know that she is.

‘Something you don’t have, sweetheart.’

She raises her eyebrows at him and scoffs lightly. ‘It is not a sense of morality then. You lack that completely.’

That's ironic, he thinks, coming from the woman who frequently sleeps with her husband’s elder brother. Is that not immoral too? In its own way? He doesn't say that. He is half afraid that she'll point out that, whatever her relationship with the King, he's the one that was arrested for treason and the Chevalier is already painfully aware of how low he has sunk. Instead, he forces a terse smile and waits for her to fill the silence she has created.

It takes a moment but she does. This time, however, her voice is neither mocking or cruel, but flat. Disinterested, almost. As though he is nothing more than a dull spectacle she has been forced to admire. Only she has no admiration to give, not to him. 'There is blood in your hair.'

'Oh, don't look so concerned, my dear. I've had many bodily fluids in my hair. It’s nothing new.' he says, partly because he wants to see her reaction, partly because he doesn't want to think about how much of that blood is his own and how much came second-hand from men who met less favourable fates than him.

Or more favourable, he supposes, depending on how one looks at it. If his body had also been ripped limb from limb, he wouldn't have to stand here now, wouldn't have to have engage in this battle disguised as a conversation. The dead rarely need to converse with their lover’s wives. Well, he assumes so anyway. He reminds himself that he does not know what the dead are and are not required to do. Not yet. That itself is a blessing, even when it doesn't feel like one.

Irritatingly, Henriette holds her composure, too well versed in his lewd comments and petty jibes to give him the satisfaction he desperately craves. 'Sit,' she says simply, gesturing at the chair behind him with a delicate hand, 'you look dreadful.'

'And since when have you been concerned about what I look like? As long as it isn't better than you, which, I may add, it often is.' he bites back but takes the seat anyway.

Henriette breathes a frustrated sigh, ’I don't, but my husband does, and despite the company he chooses to keep, I care about him.'

The Chevalier opens his mouth, hesitates, and finds he does not have a reply for that. He goes back to staring at her, hoping the intensity of his gaze will express the intention words cannot. After a second, he realises Henriette’s attention is elsewhere; namely, the other side of the room.  She grasps onto a porcelain bowl full of water, and with the grace of one who has spent formative years learning how to hold herself, carries it over to him. 

His face must be a painfully open question mark because she smiles ever so slightly as places the bowl on the floor at his feet and explains, 'he, Philippe, wouldn't want to see you this way. It would upset him, and he's had quite enough distress for one week, don't you think?'

He doesn't have a reply for that either. He racks his brain for a response and manages, ‘ah, was he really so affected by my absence?’ It comes out with more concern than he would like at current, so he hides the quiver in his voice with a weak smirk and hopes it passes for arrogance.

It does. She frowns disapprovingly, ‘You know that he was. He hardly ate, barely slept. I haven’t seen more than a glimpse of him in days.’

‘There is no change there then; that’s your usual level of contact, isn’t it? You cannot blame me this time, my dear. I was otherwise occupied.’

‘I do blame you.’ she says, ‘for betraying your king, for upsetting my husband, for everything.’

‘I didn’t, I didn't betray the King.’ the Chevalier replies quickly, hating the way his voice wavers again. A smirk can’t hide this. ‘It was a misunderstanding, a mistake, I-’

Henriette cuts him off, ‘you don't need to justify yourself to me.’

‘I don't?’

She shakes her head; it's not reassuring in the slightest. ‘I know the kind of man you are and what you're capable of. You're no more likely to act against the King than a mouse. You jest about it, but you'd never act on your own accord. You're not brave enough.’

He scowls at her, ‘what do you know about how brave I am? Nothing.’

‘I know you did not go to war.’

‘Neither did most of the men at court. What is your point?’

‘Philippe went. You two have been all but inseparable since the day you met, but you did not follow him to war.’ she inclines her head, a movement that should seem innocent and bewildered but is more mocking than anything. ‘Either you do not care for him as much as you'd have him believe or you cannot face the horrors of battle. Both show a kind of cowardice, I think.’

The Chevalier glares at her. The words ‘how dare you doubt my love for him?’ dance on his tongue. They die there. She is right. He does not have to justify himself. Not to her. Not to anyone. Not even to Philippe.

Henriette sighs and dips a muslin cloth into the bowl of water. ‘I do not know what your motives were, or even if you were part of a plot at all, but if the king says you are pardoned, I will take it as the word of God and forgive you. Not for your sake, but for Philippe’s’

He watches her wring the cloth out, water droplets noisily falling back into the bowl below. She raises the edge of the cloth to his face. The Chevalier tenses, expecting a twinge of pain, but her touch is light and gentle. Somehow that's worse.

‘He shouldn't have to live with this,’ she says quietly, tentatively dabbing at the dried blood on his cheek, ‘he deserves better.’

‘Finally,’ he murmurs after a moment of silence, ‘something we can agree on.’

She meets his gaze for a second and then quickly turns her attention back to cleaning his face, methodically rinsing and re-rinsing the muslin cloth until she has cleaned his skin of dirt, blood and he-dreads-to-think-what-else. The Chevalier watches her all the while, eyes narrowed, lips tilted into a frown. He won’t admit it, but he is perplexed. Never, in the many years, they have known each other – tolerated each other –, has Henriette shown him an inkling of tenderness. Why would she? They are rivals at best, enemies at worst. And it is not as though he has ever been kind to her. But now, here, alone in his lover’s chambers, she is being far kinder than he deserves. This, he realises, is what the king sees in her, what they all see in her. Kindness. A pure, selfless ability to bury her pride for a few moments and do what should be done. He knows it is not for his benefit, but he cannot help feeling an odd sense of gratitude as she plucks a strand of straw from his hair with an amount of care even his own mother didn’t practise on him.

‘You would have made a wonderful mother,’ he tells her quietly, then tells himself it’s only to distract from unwanted feelings, ‘I was sorry to hear you lost the child.’

‘Were you?’

‘Well, yes, the loss of a baby is always a tragedy.’

The look on her face tells him that she knows very well that he did not think it was so when the king’s child died – of course, it died – but then she smiles a little sadly and says, ‘I thank you, but I fear it was not.’

He averts his gaze, half afraid his eyes will reveal his true thoughts. There are some things that even he won’t say. She is right. While the miscarriage must have caused her grief, he is not certain that it could be called a tragedy. This is not the time or the place to raise a child. There is too much unrest, too much unhappiness. Any child born into the chaos that is Versailles would, no doubt, burst into bitter tears upon its arrival and demand to return to the confined safety of its mother’s womb.

Another moment passes. The Chevalier speaks, only to break the silence, ‘Well, still, there will others, won’t there?’

‘Yes, I suppose there will be.’ she murmurs, though she sounds about as convinced as he does. Neither of them acknowledges the fact that she – that she and Phillipe, the Chevalier reminds himself, already have two daughters. They both know that when one is the brother of a king, two daughters hold as much weight as no children at all. This child could have been Phillipe’s chance for a son. Would he, the Chevalier wonders, have shown more interest in said son? Would it have changed things? Was the child even his? Does it matter either way? They’ll probably never know now. He doubts Philippe will lay with her again. Not even to irritate his brother. Or the Chevalier hopes not anyway. It is nothing more than unnecessary discomfort for all of them. Henriette included. Though the Chevalier doubts she’d ever admit that to him.

He shifts uncertainly in the chair as Henriette rises to her feet, returns the bowl of now dirty water to the table, and reaches for a brush. She is well prepared, the Chevalier realises. She must have planned this. Perhaps she was the one who told the guards to bring him here. Perhaps she knew they’d be alone and she waited, laying her tools out before her with the gentility of a woman nursing an injured child and the calculated precision of a surgeon working on his patient. Or a torturer, deliberating which of his instruments would extract the right confession.

Monsieur Marchal might have used a blade. He would have caused a great deal of harm and ruined half of the Chevalier’s wardrobe in the process. On the contrary, Madame Henriette has chosen a brush. She smooths the Chevalier’s curls with a careful, steady hand and it is no less distressing than if the bristles were as sharp as a knife point.

It’s suddenly all too much. Something bitter and cruel twists inside him. He catches her wrist in his hand, pushing the brush away. ‘What do you think you are doing?’ he demands, tone sharp.

Henriette starts, then blinks. ‘I’m brushing your hair?’

‘Why?’

‘Because it needs it?’

‘But why?’

She squirms in his grasp, twisting her wrist uncomfortably. ‘You’re _hurting_ me.’

‘ _You’re_ hurting _me_.’ he repeats, although he is unsure if it’s a confession of his own misery or a mockery of her discomfort. He tightens his grip, knuckles white, and adds, ‘What could you possibly hope to achieve by this?’

He shouldn’t take pleasure in her little gasp of distress. He shouldn’t do a great many things. ‘I told you. It would upset Monsieur to see you like…’

‘Yes, yes, you’re oh-so-very kind; how will I ever repay you for your motherly hospitality in my moment of shame? I don’t need you to tell me what Monsieur would feel. I know what he feels far better than you ever will.’ In this instance, that is a lie. He doesn’t know what Philippe thinks about what he did, and he’s not sure if he wants to. He continues regardless, ‘I want to know what you want from me when you’ve finished playing the role of a saint.’

Henriette grits her teeth together and tries to pry his fingers off with her free hand. His grip is too tight and she results to forcefully digging her nails into his skin, causing the Chevalier to cry out in pain. He drops her wrist as though it were a hot coal.

‘I don’t want anything from you, ever.’ She seethes.

The Chevalier frowns at her and rubs the back of his hand sulkily. Neither of them speaks for a while. In the silence, the Chevalier can hear the faint sound of the guard’s footsteps on the other side of the door and finds himself wondering why she didn’t call for help the moment he laid a hand on her. He doesn’t suppose Henriette will give him an answer to that either. He supposes, all things considered, he doesn’t really deserve one. But since when has he limited himself to what he deserves?

He would never have dared to love, touch or look at Philippe if that were the case.

Henriette sets the brush down and rubs at the imprint his fingers left on her wrist. She gives him a harsh look, full of all the hatred and disdain she usually harbours for him. The Chevalier almost shrinks under the weight of it, almost rises to his feet and storms out of the room. But where would he go? There’s no guarantee he would be welcome elsewhere. He doesn’t know where Philippe is. He doesn’t even know if Philippe wants to see him anymore. Henriette said he was distressed. That does not mean he isn’t angry.

An angry Phillipe can be a glorious thing. Passionate. Daring. Full of fire. It’s both tantalising and intoxicating. Unless the anger is directed at him. Then each look feels like an iron rod against his skin, each word a dagger in his heart.

The Chevalier decides that the fact that Philippe was not here to greet him must mean that he is angry with him. Of course, it’s also possible that he’s out riding, or playing cards, or enjoying the company of some pretty, full-lipped, slender poet or something. The thought makes him even more miserable than he already is.

He is so preoccupied with wallowing in self-pity that he doesn’t realise Henriette is talking to him until she sighs and adds, ‘…and then you came along…’

‘What?’ he interrupts, shaking himself.

Irritation flits across her features. ‘you weren’t listening, were you?’

‘No.’ he admits.

She sighs, as if to say, ‘what else did I expect?’ and busies herself with readjusting her skirts. It’s a pretty fabric and the Chevalier spends a moment wondering if she picked it or Philippe. The pale taupe is something Philippe would choose, he thinks; the thought fills him with an equal amount of pride and jealousy.

He shrugs it off. ‘what were you saying?’

Silence.

‘I’m listening this time, I promise. Swear on my mothers’ grave, my fathers’ too, if it helps.’

She looks away and folds her hands in front of her. A nervous habit, he’s realised. After a moment, she murmurs, ‘we grew up together, you know, the King, Monsieur and me. They are more my family than my own brother is.’

This is old news. Everyone knows this. Philippe was an adorable child, according to the paintings. He wishes he’d seen it first-hand.

Henriette continues with another sigh, ‘we spent every minute we could together, playing in the gardens, climbing trees. They’d build fortresses out of sticks and leaves and declare I was the fairest princess France had ever seen. Louis was the most benevolent King, Philippe the most gallant of all the knights, and together we ruled our little kingdom in the woods,’ her lips quirked into a fond smile, ‘we drove the servants close to insanity, no doubt. I remember they had to send the Musketeers after us once, we’d wandered so deep into the trees. I’d fallen and hurt my ankle. One of them had to carry me home again. Phillipe stuck his tongue out at the physician when I was told to rest, of course, he’s never liked being told what to do, but he stayed at my side all day regardless. He always stayed by my side in those days, even when we were first wed.’

The Chevalier realises that this is where he interrupted the first time. The innocence of childhood. Antics amongst the foliage. A bond that could not be broken. And then he came along.

He has a feeling it was far more complicated than that. They grew up. Things changed. Louis had to stop pretending to be a king and step up, fill his parents’ shoes, and be one. Philippe, the knight on his steed of twigs, itched for a glimpse of a real battle and for a masculine arm to cling to. And Henriette was left, still a princess, with one man to slip a ring on her finger and another to warm her bed, but alone.

That’s how time works. It is a cruel thing. It strips you of everything you care about and leaves you, older, wiser, and unhappy. A person cannot hate time, not in the way they can hate a person. To rectify this, the ancients personified time. The Greeks called him Chronos, the Romans latched onto Saturn. The issue remains. Time became a deity. A mortal cannot hate a God, or should not, so they say. So, really, the Chevalier cannot blame Henriette for turning her anger on him. She must blame someone. He’s the logical choice. The only choice.

Then again, the Chevalier has never considered himself a scholar or a philosopher. Libraries are stuffy. Why would he read about the scandalous dealings of long dead men when he could have his own? Better ones. His tutor’s many books could never compare to silk sheets and champagne.

He’s right though. She does blame him. She’s never tried to hide that. Today is no exception.

And yet, her tone is more sad than bitter as she shakes her head and adds, ‘I may be his legal wife, but you know, I never expected him to love me as one. I always knew…knew there were some things I couldn’t give him, even before our marriage. There are some things I cannot give him, not in the way a wife should…but there wasn’t always this distance between us…not until he met you.’

The Chevalier nods slowly. He gets it now. The years of scornful glances and competitive comments, from both sides he knows, all boils down to one thing. Their love for Philippe. The Chevalier is not quite arrogant enough to assume he is the first man to visit the young Duc d'Orléans’s bed, but he is the only one to stay for this long. To stay at all, he thinks. That makes him different. He knows it does.

‘I didn’t mean to take him from you.’ The Chevalier says and is surprised to realise that it isn’t a lie. He didn’t mean to. It just happened. He fell in love, without reason or conscience, and Philippe fell in return, and it was paradise on earth. A man would have to be a fool to refuse that in the name of forced matrimony and social convention.

‘If there is one thing I have learnt in this court, what to wear and how to dance, it is that a man cannot be taken,’ Henriette replies, ‘if a husband finds companionship elsewhere, whoever his lover may be, it is because he chooses to, to believe anything else is delusional.’

He wonders what that says about Henriette’s relationship with the king. Or what the Queen would think of that concept. Then he realises it doesn’t matter. Somewhere between fixing his appearance and telling him about her childhood games, she has answered his question.

_Why are you doing this? Why are you being kind?_

She’s told him all along, has kept on telling him. He was just too stubborn to listen. She took it upon herself make him look presentable because seeing him in his dirty, miserable state would upset Philippe. In his rare hour of need, she shows him kindness because it is almost as good as showing husband, her playmate, her friend, a fraction of the compassion she still feels for him. It is, unbelievably, that simple. She knows how much Philippe cares for him. She knows it isn’t likely to change. She has accepted it. And so, she respects it. Even if she doesn’t respect him.

That is her ulterior motive. Respect. Compassion. Tolerance. Acceptance. That is, undoubtedly, what the king sees in her, what Philippe sees in her. It is also, undoubtedly, the one thing he will never have. He cannot help but respect her for it. The feeling isn’t as unpleasant as he thought it would be.

One question answered, he asks another. The one that has been waiting on the tip of his tongue from the very second the iron gates of his prison cell swung open and he was granted his freedom.

‘Where is Philippe?’

Something flickers across her face. Triumph, perhaps. Or understanding. The corner of her mouth twitches. It disappears so quickly that he can’t be sure that he didn’t imagine it. ‘He is out riding, I was told he needed to clear his head, but I suspect he’ll be back any minute now, and no doubt he’ll be pleased to see you, alive and looking well.’

‘I have you to thank for that.’ he says quietly, ‘...thank you, Henriette.

She barely seems to acknowledge it. She nods, and folds her hands in front of her again, ‘I had one of my ladies lay some clothes out for you. I wasn’t sure what you would want to wear…you have a lot of clothes, too many. If it isn’t your taste, I suspect my husband will help you choose something more desirable when he returns.’

The Chevalier nods in reply, ‘I will tell him of your kindness. He will appreciate it greatly, I’m sure.’

‘Thank you…and I will tell the King that I doubt your involvement in any plot was anything more than a foolish mistake. He has pardoned you, yes, but it would do to earn his favour.’

‘The King is a gracious man, the most benevolent and good.’ He says, and for the first time in a long time, he thinks he might mean it.

Henriette smiles, but her eyes are sad, ‘He is. I shall leave you to change then. I’ll take the guards with me as well. Philippe will be here soon.’

The Chevalier stands as she moves to leaves, the hem of her skirts brushing the floor delicately. He doesn’t know what compels him to speak, but as she reaches for the door handle, he calls her back.

‘Henriette?’

She turns, ‘yes?’

He hesitates for half a breath, then quietly says, ‘it is a tragedy to live in a world in which one cannot truly love as one longs to, or who one longs to, is it not?’

 He is talking about him and Philippe. It could as easily apply to her and Louis.

‘Yes,’ she murmurs, and she suddenly looks exhausted, ‘I do believe it is.’ Her gaze meets his, free of anger or jealousy, though not quite loving, then she slips out into the hallway, silently shutting the door behind her.

The Chevalier lingers for a moment longer, listening to the sound of footsteps disappear.  He thinks about the past hour, staring at the abandoned bowl of water and brush as though they were objects he’d encountered in a dream. He is shaken, half by confusion and half by clarity. The result is something he both understands and cannot comprehend. A philosophical mystery, if there ever was one. The existence of a feeling that is neither hatred nor kindness. A compassion that is solely dependent on a love for another, which is somehow the most selfish form of compassion he has ever imagined and the most selfless thing he has ever encountered.

A few minutes pass. He discards all thoughts about it and turns his attention to his clothing instead. He is fussing over his right cuff when he hears familiar footsteps outside, for even Philippe's footsteps are special to him, and the click of the door opening. The Chevalier turns on his heel.

‘Hello, my darling!’ he exclaims, grinning and stretching an arm out, ‘did you miss me?’


End file.
